


Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn

by proto_hipster (GasolineBreeze)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Shamanism, Transfiguration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasolineBreeze/pseuds/proto_hipster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting alone on a Friday night and Howard wonders if he is truly cursed to wander this life unfulfilled. Until he finds Naboo's potion cabinet unlocked.</p><p>A fic dealing with a bit of a negative-Nancy type Howard who just wants to change and be likeable. So, via Naboo's magic mixtures, he does change--but doesn't find himself more any more liked. Except by Vince, who just adores hedgehogs, those prickly cuties! Eventually M/M, Howince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I just finished marathoning all of The Mighty Boosh and was itching to write something for it! Hopefully this idea isn't too cliche but my muse was what if Howard thought of himself as just such a hopeless case that he'd do anything to not be him anymore, changes into a rodent, and is taken in by an unknowing Vince, who probably espouses affection over Howard and wonders where he's gone and that he misses him, etc etc.  
> I am not well versed in Britishisms so there is a decided lack of them-- I wish I could but being state-side, they would probably sound off! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! (:

Howard squirmed on the overstuffed couch in the Nabootique’s upstairs apartment, disquieted by the unusual stillness. Typically the space would be buzzing with sounds of bickering, music (jazz-funk or electro, depending on who won the aforementioned bicker), a gurgling hookah, telly, and a manner of other distractions that kept Howard in a constant state of disarray. But take those elements away and the silence was far more deafening. Alone and lonely, a sigh pushed past the tall man’s mustached lips. Naboo and Bollo were gone to who-knows-where—something about ‘home planet’ and ‘gather alchemical ingredients—and said they’d be back by Monday afternoon. It was now half-past 11:00 PM on a Friday night, and Vince had slinked off to the Velvet Onion an hour ago. Howard wasn’t invited this time; some bird involved apparently. Howard caught a glance of him before he left: the small man was dressed to the nines—nothing unusual to be sure, but he was really done up tonight. It was with some amusement that a thought struck him, _‘Hope she isn’t the jealous type. My money’s on Vince being the prettier one.’_ He often dwelled on his roommate’s obvious beauty and natural charm. Not in a lustful way, certainly not, but in a longing, pitiful way. Couldn’t just a mite of charisma be granted to him? Couldn’t just one or two people flock to Howard as thousands did to Vince? Speculation over the inequity of life became an almost daily occurrence as time marched on. He wasn’t getting any younger, and he was well set in his ways. As hard as he may have tried to change trajectories, it now seemed a useless expenditure of energy. Embittered by a lack of love, looks, and every other gauge of happiness people go by, Howard once again found himself staring blankly ahead on a Friday night.

Now a quarter past twelve and Howard had yet to move from the spot he had occupied for now going on three hours. He felt the grove deepen and his heavy body sink further into the cushions. Perhaps he could linger long enough to become grafted to the couch, and then he wouldn’t have worldly problems to deal with at all. He would be the Couch-Man, a sideshow oddity that would attracts tens of hundreds from all over Camden to look upon his freakish fiber-infused body. At least then he would receive some attention.  
Before delving too far into this outlandish scenario, he came back for air: a sad sack of a human he may be, but he’d be damned before crawling up into a ball and playing The Cure LPs on repeat.  
“All right, Moon,” addressing himself since no one else was there to address him, “you’ve had your fill. Time to get up, get movin’, and stop this pitiful display.” His voice was full of the Howard Moon brand conviction, but lacked genuine enthusiasm. Unsure of exactly where it was he was supposed to go, he made a movement towards the bedroom he shared with Vince. Flicking on the light switch, his eyes ran over the entirety of his affects: a twin bed, a cheap wooden desk, folding chair, lamp, an assortment of pens and paperclips (a satellite of Stationery Village, officially “Jotter Junction”), and a dresser housing his four khaki button downs, two Hawaiian shirts, three earth-toned trousers, and seventeen pairs of calf socks. His side of the room was in stark contrast to Vince’s eclectic collection of possessions—half of his roommate’s wardrobe was littered about at any given time, the rest packed into a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe. In the corner stood a vanity showcasing a collection of high-end makeup, hair products, and more accessories than were countable. Vince’s bed was never made. Howard’s sheets were tucked in with military corners. It was like looking into two separate universes bumped up next to one another. One was orderly, tidy, boring, predictable—the other eccentric and intriguing. Now more crestfallen than he had been before entering the room, Howard scrunched his long nose in displeasure and turned the light back off.

If only he could change. Turning from the bedroom, shoulders sunk low, pesky musings began anew. _‘I’m 32 years old for Chrissakes! I am who I am—can’t I just be appreciated for that? Am I so repulsive that no one save a Mod-worshipping eccentric will befriend me?_ ’ Lost in his darkening thoughts, Howard found his legs had taken him to the kitchen, and parked in front of some cupboards left ajar. His eyes ran over the neglected contents in an effort to stave off any more intrusive thoughts. Peanut butter, biscuits, open bag of crisps—probably stale, should throw those out—tea, non-descript jar of purple liquid… Ah, something of Naboo’s to be certain. Must’ve been put into the food pantry by mistake. Without thinking, Howard reached out for the curious concoction and walked it over to its appropriate shelf. The world needs order and organization; how could anyone ever possibly get along without him? He mused sarcastically after returning the jar. A moment after rerouting back to the pantry for further inspection, he stopped. A thought occurred to him: _Naboo’s pantry is unlocked._ Slowly his line of vision returned to the open cabinet. Sure enough, the pad lock was undone and hung limply. The small Shaman had a host of curious potions and salves, but Howard and Vince were forbade to ever even look at them again after one too many screw ups with his shop in their care. But now he had the opportunity to peek behind the curtain—and with no one around, no less! The idea was too tempting.  
Gingerly he pulled the cabinet doors open completely. His eyes darted left, then right, then left again to scan the empty apartment, thinking this could very well be a setup and that he had taken the bait. A few breathless moments later and nothing had happened. Bollo didn’t come charging out of some secret hiding spot, nor did Vince swing the door open in a drunken fervor. Confident this little foray would be safely between him and the potions pantry, he continued his probe.  
  
A few minutes passed and Howard had realized why the lock was left undone: the apish familiar must’ve been labeling the potions and left in a hurry, neglecting to lock up. There were individual labels scribbled on nearly half the bottles specifically naming its contents, while each shelf was marked with a broader classification. The top shelf was labeled “Magic Carpet Maintenance” and the bottles were marked “Luster Formula”, “Thread Sealer”, among others. Not very interesting. He went on to read what the other shelves held, although had a tough time deciphering the scrawled writing. But one caught his eye that he understood quiet well: “Transfiguration”. Ah, perhaps this was his ticket! Surely Naboo had many concoctions for making a duck into a swan! However, upon closer inspection, it seemed it was at this shelf that Bollo had abandoned his task in haste. There were four bottles on the shelf, and only one was labeled, but it was almost entirely illegible. The beginning of a word starting with “A” could be made out but not much else. Dare he? At this low juncture in his life, almost _any_ change seemed a welcome one. That particular liquid was an inviting shade of mauve, and upon removing the cork, gave off a sort of pleasant, floral scent. Nothing that smelled of daisies could be all that bad, right? Looking on at the slightly effervescent contents, Howard swallowed thickly. Was he in his right mind? Would Howard Moon truly drink an unlabeled magical mixture without thought of the consequences? Just then it struck him: if that’s what the straight-laced, drab Howard Moon would do, then surely he should do the opposite…! With a fresh vigor stoking in his gut, Howard grinned and took a long pull of the potion, before shirking back at its sour taste.  
  
“Blech!” he cried. “How can it taste so bad and smell like a field of roses?” Saliva rushed to drench his mouth in an attempt to wash out the offending flavor. A shiver ran up his spine as he felt his esophagus coated with the liquid that left a cooling trail. After the shock of coldness arrived in the pit of his stomach, growing even colder, Howard felt that perhaps he had made a mistake…


End file.
